


Surrender

by Flurry_X



Series: Nurmengard Castle Tales [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Minor Credence Barebone/Percival Graves|Gellert Grindelwald, Post-Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, Power Imbalance, Rough sex (hinted at), Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 09:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16741300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flurry_X/pseuds/Flurry_X
Summary: " “My boy”Two short words, said in one short breath, seeping into him, like balm over dry and cracked skin. Soothing and welcome and restoring, reaching deep into all his hidden crevices, fixing him from the inside out, mending corners of his soul he never knew were torn.He hated it. "-----------Snapshots of Credence's time at Nurmengard Castle with Grindelwald.Credence POV





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> Snapshots of Credence's time at Nurmengard Castle with Grindelwald.  
> Credence POV  
> Parallel to "No Redemption", can be read as a standalone.

“My boy”  
Two short words, said in one short breath, seeping into him, like balm over dry and cracked skin. Soothing and welcome and restoring, reaching deep into all his hidden crevices, fixing him from the inside out, mending corners of his soul he never knew were torn.  
He hated it.  
He hated how good it felt, how healing, how warm, how powerful and irresistible Grindelwald’s very presence was to him. He longed to fold himself into his embrace, tight and stifling and secure, to make a burrow inside the man’s arms, and deeper still, into his chest, and never leave, hidden and protected and safe. And in the same breath he would long to scratch and bite his way out, out of his chest, his arms, his control, wrecking the man’s body from the inside out, taking something from him that could never be replaced, leaving him empty.  
It was a strong, rage filled craving, prickling at the back of his skull, trickling down his neck, always there, wanting, never settling, never leaving him. And he was powerless, a messy heap of bones and nerves, exposed, fragile, ripe for the taking.

He would observe him sometimes, moving fluid and yet sturdy, like the trees outside his castle, a presence that seemed so certain and unwavering, as old as the earth and the forest themselves, like not even the darkest storm would wipe him away.  
‘I could kill him’ he would think then, heart rattling painful in his ribcage, ‘I could catch him off guard, make him suffer like I did. I could get revenge’ he would whisper to himself only, his obscurus pulsating inside of him, him stroking it, almost toying with it like a wild pet. The idea that he was so close to Grindelwald now, inside his castle, a trusted guest, that it would be so easy for him to use this closeness and turn it against him, annihilating him forever.  
Avenging the boy he had once been, fragile and trusting, and so ready to let that powerful man in, letting him take everything he had to give. Sometimes the rage would be so hot and strong, he just wanted to let the obscurus run free, unsheathed, unleash all the pent up anger and pain upon the man who had treated him like a useless dirty tool to be discarded as soon as he wasn’t needed.  
But he would always stop.  
Because he knew that, now, he was. He was needed, he was wanted. He could see it, in the way the man would look at him, intense and searching and proud; in the way he would grip him, so tight, and relentless, and desperate.  
Grindelwald needed him to achieve his vision, wanted him by his side, close and powerful, and victorious, and he kept failing to find a reason to walk away from it all. 

He thought knowing who he really was would give him some clarity, hush those voices in his head telling him he was worthless, unwanted, disposable. He thought there was nothing he desired more than to belong, to have a family, a tribe, a name. It used to keep him up at night, restless and cold, the uncertainty, the doubt, wondering if he too belonged somewhere, to someone. Wanting to be free and wanting to be claimed.  
Grindelwald had offered a story to answer his question, but not a tribe to fill his longing. He was still alone, he was still unclaimed, unwanted. Still craving, still searching for a way to fill the howling hole in his chest, empty and cold, making him want to latch onto any source of warmth he could reach. And Grindelwald was there, always just a breath, a stretch away, powerful, sturdy, timeless. It felt like Credence could lean on him, latch onto his arms, be held up, effortlessly. 

He longed for that feeling, that closeness, even now, after the betrayal, after all the time and the distance; a want, so strong, so deep, to be marked, claimed, to be his. Craving the man’s palms on his face, commanding grip and comforting caress, like silk on his skin, and like sandpaper on his soul, melting those tight knots inside of him and quieting the deafening pain for just a short while. They always felt so hot on his skin, burning, the warmth lingering on him for hours after he had left, a phantom print of his shameful desire plastered there for everyone to see, claiming him even from afar. Caressing, and scraping, and mending, and destroying.  
The duality of him, the glacial demeanour and the tender tones of his voice, the comfort, the lies. Everything so tightly entangled that it was impossible for him to discern right from wrong, sin from salvation. A light so bright it blinded him, flying him so close to the sun he had no chance but to burn and fall into the darkness. And yet the fire felt so good, the darkness so comforting.

There was a secret desire, coiled inside of him, nestled in his chest, dark and hushed and unspeakable; it had come alive once he had met Mr. Graves and it had never left him, building and growing and mounting.  
He had felt it from the very first time they met, something so powerful, unraveling and twitching in his chest, and low low low, deep down inside, so foreign and sinful and yet so familiar. The way the man’s eyes seemed to look straight into him, wandering, searching, unveiling every secret he thought hidden, and exposing it to the light. It was terrifying and exhilarating.  
It was sweaty nights, ragged and wet and painful, his raw desires coming alive like demons in the darkness, almost as tangible as his obscurus. They would slither on top of him, against him, tempting and luscious and he wanted so badly to give in, to melt into the pleasure, but he never did. Still, immobile, straining against his clothes, against the covers, the cold air, wanting so badly to reach out, give in, but unable to. His shame, cold and heavy, like a stone over his chest, paralyzing him, his body shaking and wanting but always so so still. His mind reeling with visions of dark eyes and strong arms, and burning wrath and torn flesh, desire and punishment, irresistible craving and unforgivable sin.  
He would long for the man's visits as much as he would fear them, knowing the burning desire in his chest would come undone in his presence, roaring and hot and yet still forbidden.

And now he was always so close, his presence stretching out to fill every space he inhabited, his tendrils reaching everywhere, filling his lungs like a thick smoke, a welcomed invader. He would get close enough that Credence could smell him, feel the warmth of his body, and he couldn’t stop his breath from catching in his throat, his thoughts from becoming a heap of rage and desire. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop himself from closing the small gaps between them, moving slowly, like he was being pulled from the center of his belly, an invisible string guiding him, ever closer. There was no mother to please, no rules to follow, no curfew, no tale of sin and damnation that could restrain him anymore. He could reach out, finally, crash into his desires, crash into him.  
He would look up at him, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to say it, a scorching need, a hole inside his chest that howled whenever the man was near.  
“Sir..” he would say, and then words would fail him, they seemed unworthy, shallow, insignificant, crumpled up inside his dry throat.  
The burning pull he felt, the raving desire, it felt like damnation and salvation at the same time. Giving in was never a choice, not his choice, it was an inevitability that would just befall on his bent neck, and he could only accept, naked and weeping and grateful. Knowing his own name didn't even matter anymore, he didn't need to belong to anyone else, he wasn't Credence, he wasn't Aurelius, he just wanted to be a boy, and to be his.

And then his hands would reach out, finally, and the noise would stop, all the voices suddenly hushed, turned off, tucked away, somewhere far. And suddenly there were no visions of sin and fire, only white noise, loud and prickling and peaceful, and warm hands, and clothes, slipping away, caressing his skin as they left it. And Sir, all around him, inside him, in his ears, in his mouth, rattling painful inside his chest. Taking everything he had to offer, owning him like he was something precious, worth having, worth keeping.  
Strong hands over his cold skin, reaching inside him, commanding and knowing, and his body was like a puppet and he didn’t have to think, there was no choice to be made, and it was peaceful. There were no lies, no doubts, no dark places for their bodies to hide, moving and straining and shaking with desire.  
Sometimes he would cry, he would feel the wetness sliding slowly over his cheeks, salty into his mouth, a blessing and a cleansing, as he gave into his sins, emptying himself out for this man who grabbed him tight and called him his. The waves of pleasure, exhilarating and loud, spreading through his body, climbing into his throat and out of his mouth, finally released and shameless and rebellious. He reveled in the pain and the euphoria of it all, releasing every ounce of control he had, spreading his body out like an offer, leaving his Sir no choice but to take him.  


He knew then he would never leave, not the warm safe place of their bodies together, not him, ever.  
Not now that he had been claimed, given a purpose.  
Not now that he belonged, to him.  
The man invading him, conquering him, him always making the same choice, the only choice, to surrender.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I can't stop thinking about this pairing and being fascinated by their dynamics, so I had to write some more and I tried to explore Credence's struggle this time. If this story feels less coherent than the previous it's because I see this character as being very lost and confused, not really having a clear objective and kinda being overwhelmed by it all.  
> This isn't super polished but I really hope someone will still enjoy it. If you like it PLEASE do let me know with a comment, it genuinely means the world to me since I haven't been writing for so long.  
> Also considering turning this into a long-fic or a series of connected one-shots, let me know if you would be interested in it!


End file.
